This is a proposed baseball stadium site near Diridon Station in San Jose. The site has cleared an initial review, but there are still many hurdles that make the possibility of the A's playing in San Jose a long shot.

The NIMBYs of the Bay Area, apostles of not-in-my-back-yard, have flexed their muscles impressively lately. First, they stopped an A's ballpark in two different Fremont sites. Now, they're questioning a high-speed rail line up the Peninsula.

Because I present awards every September for extraordinary NIMBY achievement, I'm loath to steal my own thunder. Over the past week, however, my mind has been fixed on a controversy not far from my own back yard.

You see, I live in the Hanchett Park neighborhood of San Jose, about a mile as a City Hall falcon flies, from the potential site of an A's ballpark next to the main Caltrain station.

And my neighborhood message group, usually sprinkled with tips on handymen or warnings of car break-ins, has buzzed about the potential downside of a stadium — traffic, lights, noise and the need for double-pane windows.

Early debate

The whole debate is probably premature. The A's lack permission from Major League Baseball to invade the assumed territory of the Giants. Last week, A's managing partner Lew Wolff suggested everyone chill until he decides his next move.

Since it's my neighborhood, I'm still intrigued by the passionate difference between the brave few who welcome a ballpark — I counted three on my message group — and the majority who think it's the worst idea since Donald Rumsfeld.

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One poster suggested the gulf was shaped by the like or dislike of baseball. I think it's a more classic NIMBY battle: The neighbors might like baseball in the abstract. Just not here. Not now. Not with their money.

In truth, the NIMBY people have raised searching questions. How does a baseball stadium fit with plans for high-speed rail at the same site? What about the lights and noise? What about the inadequate parking or the choked freeways?

At its core, any NIMBY battle reflects economics. Even if you adore baseball, chances are having a ballpark next to you reduces the resale value of your house. If you're underwater on your mortgage, you'd prefer not to have the klieg lights highlight your drowning.

That's truer the nearer you are to the ballpark: Someone in Silicon Valley could write a formula showing how opposition rises geometrically the closer you move from Hanchett Park to the St. Leo's neighborhood to the Caltrain station.

At my house on Hanchett Avenue, between Park Avenue and The Alameda, I live on the penumbra of the fear, far enough away that I'm unlikely to see people park on my lawn, but close enough to feel the traffic thrum toward the ballpark.

Urban comfort

Oddly enough, the jostle and bustle of urban life comforts me. For the first eight years of my life, I lived in big cities: New York, Pittsburgh, Chicago. And most kids played in the street, not in the back yard.

So where one of my neighbors bemoaned a possible explosion of fast-food restaurants if the A's come to town, I see a ballpark pumping energy into The Alameda. In 15 years, I've seen nothing but good from the impact of the HP Pavilion.

I don't mean the city ought to accept any ballpark under any terms. We know there are good and bad deals. When the city negotiates with Lew Wolff, it needs to bring its "A'' game, and I intend that as no pun: He's bringing his.

What I do mean is that a ballpark can be — with the right rules, in the right circumstances, for the right price — a big plus for the city and even for most of the neighborhood. Now, the A's white shoes are a wholly different matter. ...